#50 Granted worries

I used to take some stuff for granted: the energy, the will to do things, the capacity to persevere. Those, and a few more, would be the things people would mention if they wanted to describe me. They might say, too, that I am stubborn as a mule, unconformist, and have a slight tendency to overdo, overplan, and overthink, but those are topics for another day. What worries me today is my brain, what time has done to it, to me, to the way I feel. I was once a fully charged battery, able to juggle family, work, a social agenda, and whatever was thrown at me, but then, years passed, and slowly but steadily things changed.

It was evident that something was not right the first time a doctor told me I should consider taking pills to manage my stress—as some of my colleagues did— but I rejected the idea of using chemicals to regulate my mood. This happened many years ago, and that time I got myself out of the rough patch I was in by talking to a stranger about things that annoyed me and listening to her comments, which annoyed me even more. Years later, when my job place revealed itself as a worthy soap opera stage, I doubted myself for a couple of days but screamed out loud—at home— that I’m not a quitter. Instead of quitting, I moved to another position, a side-down move that could help me to pursue the career path I wanted. And then, everything was okay, and my battery was full again, until one horrible day when it wasn’t.

There is something very scary about being trapped in a body that does not obey you, when your back or neck hurts, and you cannot walk or sit properly, when you have a headache, and everyone annoys you with their noise as they walk and talk around you. That sucks, we all agree. Still, I believe there is something even worse: when your brain stops working as you’re used to. That’s just terrifying, and something very difficult to cope with. Because what does it mean if you’re not able to do the thing you were good at? Does it mean you just changed— because age isn’t just a number but a life backpack full of stuff we love and hate— or that a part of you died?  

A few years ago, I started experiencing an annoying “brain fog.” The first day, I thought I was just tired, probably because I had caught one more virus my kids brought home. The following week, when I was tired of resting—I can’t cope with the idea of being ill and having to rest—I started thinking about the impact that “the fog” could have on my life. What if I couldn’t concentrate anymore?

I never considered myself the smartest cookie in the jar, but I know I am hardworking and borderline obsessed with proving I can do whatever I’m challenged with. My husband complains about it sometimes, about my pathological need to show that “I can” even when it is clear that “I should not even want.” So, when the fog arrived, I had to face a very terrible question: would my life change? And the answer, the only reasonable one, turned out to be scary as Hell. Yes. My life was about to change.

If at this point in the story you are feeling somehow sorry about me, please don’t. My life changed; it didn’t end. There is a tremendous difference.

Fast-forward a few years, and here I am, living very differently than I did when I worked in an office and tracked milestones as part of my daily routine. The fog that was once my companion disappeared for a while, only to return as a side effect of my age. Ah… age, what a privilege to become a middle-aged woman, to have lived so much and have the opportunity to live even more… Now, on top of the brain fog, I have the opportunity to experience the burning skin at night, the sweats, the thinning hair, the care-demanding nails, the mood swings and the idiotic desire to build a time machine to be sixteen again and change this all for teenage-acne. If only…

I’ve read a lot lately, fiction for my work and non-fiction for myself, for my body and my mind. I wish someone had written about women my age years ago, something that could have made this whole process easier, helping me and many others go through this rediscovery in a less demanding way. Neither the body nor the mind seems interested in collaborating to make my life easier. I changed my job to give myself a chance to be happier… so, why did my hormones “think” they have to start a revolution now? It’s not fair! I don’t deserve this! And still, it doesn’t matter what I think about it. Things will happen, and I’ll face them.

This is my first post after many weeks without “proper” writing, my way of putting myself back on track after hours in front of my computer with little or no results to show. Maybe the last few weeks were difficult because I’m starting to suffer from a kind of stage freeze, as my first book is about to be published and I’ll have to face reality: will this life change—the one I chose, not the one my body decided on—pay off?

I might not have control over this—and many other things—but I cannot help worrying about it. I’m starting to think I might worry too much…